


Not Talking About It

by confessingly



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confessingly/pseuds/confessingly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know the best love stories, Waldorf, they’re actually pretty simple. There’s no games, no scheming, no humiliation. No car crashes or fake marriages. Just a guy and a girl. Maybe getting coffee, or watching a movie together, or reading books." </p>
<p>After the events of 'G.G.', Blair begins to figure out how to be happy again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Talking About It

  _Get a Eurail pass_ , Román suggests, because they only see each other during summers and her father’s increasingly rare trips back to Manhattan, so of course he would think that was an appropriate thing for an ex-princess socialite to do. She presses the pair of tickets he buys for her into her mother’s hands.

_For you and Cyrus_ , she says, and Eleanor smiles and replies: _Oh, how you’ve grown, darling_. Kisses her cheek; taps at her phone. Doesn’t ask how Blair plans to spend her summer.

The more things change—

No, she’s not going to think like that. New day, new annulment, new Blair Waldorf. She picks up her phone, starts to text Serena, and then stops. She eats a thin slice of wedding cake instead, and then calls Humphrey.

He picks up after one ring. _I was beginning to think you’d never call_. God, she can see his face in her mind’s eye already, that ridiculous floppy hair and that horrible, pathetic little smile.

_I had legal matters to tend to, Humphrey_ , she says, running one hand through her hair and mulling over the possibility of a fringe. _Anyways, I want to watch a movie tonight. Bring one here in two hours_.

_Any movie?_ He sounds confused. Typical.

_Not any movie_ , she huffs. _Something you know I’ll like_.

_As if I could guess at Blair Waldorf’s well honed, highly discerning tastes in film_. _I’ll bring the wrong thing and you’ll have Vanya throw me out the window_.

_Don’t be self-defeatist, Humphrey, it makes you more unattractive than you normally are. Which is a feat, believe me. Find something. You always know what I like_.

A silence follows, and heat crawls up her neck like a many-legged insect _._

_Waldorf—_

_Two hours, Humphrey_. She hangs up and thinks, again: new Blair Waldorf. New means erasing everything that messed her life up, new means going to the drawer stuffed with old headbands, headbands she’d replaced with the tiaras they were always supposed to become, and tipping the whole thing into a trash bin.

Real princesses, she thinks, don’t need a prince. They just need a good cry, a lemon drop martini, and an aggressive twenty minutes of internship-hunting before Humphrey arrives, bearing ‘Summertime’.

_I didn’t want to bring a love story_ , he mumbles, voice constricted into an apology. _But I figured—Kate Hepburn_.

_Can’t go wrong with Criterion_ , she shrugs. Humphrey looks relieved, like he really did believe that Vanya was going to step out of the elevator and kill him, which is cute, in a stupid way. Which sums up her feelings on him in general, come to think about it.

New Blair Waldorf, she reminds herself. He falls asleep on her shoulder ten minutes before the movie ends, and when he wakes up an hour later, she doesn’t even pretend to be angry.

_Hey—Humphrey_. He turns, the elevator dinging impatiently. She doesn’t know what to say, or what she even wants to say, so words come from her mouth before she can finish them in her head, _Thank God for really I’m glad we’re still just thank you_.

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling unexpectedly. _Anytime, B_. Then the doors close on him and he’s gone, like the paparazzi, like the tiara, like her marriage.

 

**

 

They were afraid to talk in the airport, the night of the wedding, as she changed into that tacky tourist shirt and dumped her gown into a shopping bag and hid from anyone who might recognize the new Princess of Monaco. So they wrote: Humphrey bought a journal (a Moleskine—would a Humphrey write in anything else?). They sat in the Gold Card Lounge and drank gin and tonics and passed the notebook back and forth. 

I don’t know who I am anymore.

That’s easy. You’re Blair Waldorf.

Blair Bass?

Why does it always need to be one or the other? Louis or Chuck? Why can’t it be: Blair. Just Blair?

Because B without C is just not B anymore.

I’m not calling him C. His name is Chuck. We are not Gossip Girl. Also, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And I dated Serena.

I’ll concede that. But why is it so dumb to think that Chuck is the One? I know he’s the One. I felt like he was the One today.

Why?

What do you mean, why?

I mean, why is the guy who traded you for a hotel the One? Also, why are we capitalizing One?

Because he’s Chuck, and I’m Blair. And we will always hurt each other if we’re not together.

You know the best love stories, Waldorf, they’re actually pretty simple. There’s no games, no scheming, no humiliation. No car crashes or fake marriages. Just a guy and a girl. Maybe getting coffee, or watching a movie together, or reading books.

How is that the best kind of love story? How does that perform at the box office?

It’s the best because it’s happy.

Their flight was announced. He got up, slinging a backpack over his shoulder and heading for the door. She wrote one last line before pushing the notebook down underneath her wedding gown: I’d like to try being happy.

 

**

 

_What’s this?_ Humphrey’s hands alight upon the Eurail passes, tucked underneath a vase of flowers.

_Oh, just a sorry-your-marriage-lasted-two-weeks present from Román_ , she laughs. _Like I was going to roam Europe with the hoi polloi and sleep in hostels or something, just to get over Louis and Chuck. I gave it to Mom and Cyrus, but they decided to go to Florence instead_.

His eyes light up and she grimaces. She knows what’s coming next. _Shit, Waldorf, these are one-month passes. First class. And you’re just going to let them sit around here all summer?_ She still can’t figure out when or why the switches between _Waldorf_ , _Blair_ , and _B_ take place. She’s been considering having Dorota make some kind of flowchart.

_I can’t leave New York now_ , she protests. _Film Forum’s showing ‘Desiderium’ next week_. She considers playing the still-devastated runaway bride sympathy card, but it’s Humphrey. The only person she can’t play that card with. And he’s made up his mind, as Humphreys so often unfortunately do.

_It’s settled. You’re flying in to Paris on Thursday. Get that visa ready. I’ll send you a town car and an itinerary_.

She thinks about arguing, about telling him she is a grown woman who needs to find an internship already, but Humphrey is on his phone, trying to remember the name of an amazing winery just outside of Barcelona his agent had recommended, and as usual, the words that come out of her mouth are the wrong ones: _There’s two tickets, Humphrey_.

He looks up, and she is flattered, slightly, by how little expectation there is in his eyes. _Oh yeah. Call Serena_.

Blair imagines one month of boys jumping over her to get to her friend, of being upstaged and outshone and undone by Serena, who would probably fall in love three times, get married, and then leave her alone in Ibiza. Not that she has any frame of reference for that kind of behavior. It would just happen, inevitably, like taxes.

_Serena would get so bored at a winery. You come with me, Humphrey_.

_Are you sure?_

She nods, and thinks that the last time she was this sure of something, she was seventeen and Serena van der Woodsen was the bitch who stole Nate from her.

 

**

 

San Francisco was quiet. Somewhere with decent croissants and nobody scrawling bizarre slang across tunnels and doorways would have been preferable, but going abroad on a whim was not easy, so their options were limited. Nobody seemed to know or care about the runaway princess bride there, anyway, which was the point. They slept in twin beds and talked about movies.

Blair brought out the notebook over a silent lunch at a boulangerie Humphrey had heard about from—well, she wasn’t certain, but he had always heard of good, or off-beat, or interesting places wherever they went.

I don’t want to talk about it, she wrote.

Then don’t. His handwriting was messy, almost unreadable; flecks of butter speckled the page.

Just don’t?

You’ll talk about it when you want to.

That’s thoughtful of you, Humphrey.

I try, B.

I thought we were staying away from the Gossip Girl names.

Won’t happen again.

So you don’t think I should be with Chuck?

I think you should be happy. From experience, I don’t think Chuck makes you happy. That’s all the judgment I can give.

I expect more judgment from the Lonely Boy. That’s practically all you <strike>do</strike> did.

No, still do. I can turn it off for people I like, though.

You like me?

I’m here, aren’t I? We’re friends, Waldorf. Somehow.

I’m as confused as you, Humphrey. This is not the honeymoon I anticipated.

Why don’t we talk?

But writing is so much easier. Plus it’d be a great plot point to work into your next novel. See, I’m really looking out for you.

Waldorf and Humphrey. Could be a good book.

I think you already wrote that.

Well, with a true ending, this time.

 

**

 

Humphrey’s never seen Paris, but she doesn’t want to stick around for long—there’s too much of her and Chuck, her and Louis, in the city, and this is a trip for forgetting, right? Still, she takes him to Père Lachaise and her favorite pâtisserie before they head for Lyon. He declares the macaroons perfect and she turns away when he gets emotional at Proust’s grave.

She likes watching him watch the city go by, the shifts of his expression as the Eiffel Tower darts in and out of sight between buildings, the way he seems to inhale the entirety of Jardin les Tuileries in a ten-minute detour from their schedule. And on the train, too, he is delighted to be there, buying food constantly and taking pictures, hundreds within hours, making friends with an old couple in the neighboring compartment within minutes.

_I used to get excited about traveling_ , she says at one point.

_How could you ever stop being excited?_ he replies, bewildered (not uncommon).

She shrugs. _New York is just better_.

He shakes his head, leans over her, puts his forehead against hers, puts his arms on her shoulders. _Come on, Blair_ , he says, and his voice drops to a whisper. _Get the fuck over yourself. We’re in France_.

_Nice pep talk_ , she snorts, pushing him away. _Would you like me to buy you a fanny pack? Maybe some socks and sandals? I’ll find some street kids to mug you, if you want._

But Humphrey is unperturbed. _I’m happy_ , he says, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes. She watches him some more and thinks that Chuck and Louis have probably ruined her for happiness for the rest of her life.

In Lyon, Humphrey has an entire bottle of Beaujolais and tries to dance with her. She demurs, and he laughs. _Whenever you’re ready, Waldorf_ , and he’s spinning away with their waitress, twirling and dipping her. Blair wonders if alcohol is the secret after all, because she’s never seen anyone look so light, so glad to be alive.

She tries the same in Marseille, but only ends up having to be walked back to the room by Humphrey. He lays her down and tucks her in and kisses her on the forehead and he might be whispering _Love you_ , or even _Good night_ , or—the most likely scenario—nothing at all—but it’s nice to think about, possibly even the kind of thing that would make her happy.

 

**

 

He pulled out the notebook in Chinatown one week after they had run away, over dumplings and fried rice.

You have to end this marriage.

I thought we weren’t talking about this.

We’re not talking about it. We’re writing about it.

What can I do? We’re married. A divorce would cause too much of a scandal.

An annulment?

Humphrey, I _just_ got married. To a prince. I am not joining Britney Spears in the Famous Annulments club.

I’m trying to help.

Honestly? I just want to eat my dumplings and get an MSG headache.

Honestly? I just want you to do the right thing for yourself. Not for Louis, or for Chuck, or for Monaco, or for the steps of the Met.

I cannot believe you brought up the steps. They feel like so long ago.

It really wasn’t that long ago, Blair.

What are you trying to say?

I’m not saying anything. I’m writing that it was only a few years ago that Blair Waldorf was the undisputed, non-negotiable, hands-down queen of the Upper East Side. Now she’s a runaway bride trapped in a sham marriage with no job and spending her honeymoon with the Artist Formerly Known As Lonely Boy.

Fuck off, Brooklyn.

 

**

 

In Berlin, Blair takes Humphrey to all her favorite sights, watching, again, as he watches everything around him, finding something (too small to be anything, really) in his wonder, in the way he stuffs food in like he’ll never get anything like it in his life, the shaky, blurry pictures he takes because he’s too excited to hold his phone still.

She supposes that this is probably why he writes so well.

They get drunk together in Cologne, and end up lying on the floor of the Kölner Dom between the pews to hide from their guide. Blair gives them up with a giggle; when they’re kicked out—the guide looks personally disappointed in them, _like Headmistress Queller_ , Humphrey whispers—they try to walk off the alcohol and look out at the city lights over the Rhine.

Blair thinks about kissing, maybe Chuck, that’s the kind of person who would be perfect here. Chuck would tell her they were perfect, they were destiny, they were fate, he’d whisper in her ear and touch the nape of her neck. There would be expensive chocolates. There would be a game, if he was in a good mood.

Humphrey just wants to talk. He might still be a little bit drunk, but he starts talking about some books he’s been reading, postmodern, sprawling novels that all sound so ordinary, all about normal people and their normal, disappointing lives.

_Where’s the drama?_ she asks. _Where’s the plot? Who cares?_

_That’s what I used to think_ , he replies, and she wonders if he notices that he’s leaning against her, ever so slightly. _But I get it now. No one gives a fuck about people like us, the rich kids. Our lives aren’t art, going to parties and having sex and marrying princes—sorry—it’s not even real life for most people. The elevation of the mundane. That’s what literature is now_.

_You’re not making much sense_ , Blair says, although he is, sort of. _This new wave stuff is never going to be as good as the Brontë sisters_.

He shakes his head. _Snob_.

She hesitates, then decides to go for a horrible Jimmy Stewart impression. _What do you mean, snob?_

_You're the worst kind there is. An intellectual snob. You made up your mind awfully young, it seems to me_. His Katherine Hepburn’s no good either, and they begin to giggle helplessly, carrying through the dialogue as best they can.

_Well, twenty-one’s about the time to make up your mind_. By now they’re sitting, and there’s a remark to be made about how dirty the sidewalks must be, but Blair can barely get that line out, she’s choking so hard with laughter. She’s not entirely sure why—it’s not that funny. Humphrey can’t speak, either, and it takes a few minutes for him to continue.

_The time to make up your mind about people is never_ , he declares at last, jabbing his pointer finger against her forehead. Their laughing subsides, slowly.

_Okay_ , says Blair after several moments, _I’m definitely not drunk anymore_.

_Are you happy?_

_Yeah_.

 

**

 

She left the notebook on his bed at a hotel somewhere along the Pacific Coast Highway. Inside she’d written: I called Louis. When she returned from a walk by the ocean, she found it on her bed.

And?

At dinner, she pushed the notebook back to him.

_You didn’t write anything_ , he said.

_Well, because I wanted to talk about it_.

_Oh, now we’re going to engage in some normal behavior?_

_Humphrey. Shut up. I’m talking_.

_Shutting up, Waldorf_.

_I called Louis. And he doesn’t want to divorce._

_It’s a two-way street, isn’t it?_

_I told you to shut up. He wants an annulment_.

He shut up completely, then, and Blair knew that Serena probably would not have done the same. She marveled at the difference of a few years. That Brooklyn Boy would be the one to help her through this—that he would listen to her and drive her down the Californian coast while she sorted out how her life had gone so wrong.

_It’ll be like I was never married_ , she mumbled. _Like I wasn’t carrying his child, like I didn’t lose it, like everything we went through never happened. But it all happened, I can’t_ …

She talked all night. And all he said was, _It’s okay, Blair. You deserve to be happy_. Over and over and over, until she started to believe it.

 

**

 

Eastern Europe’s where they get stuck—Prague, mostly. Blair’s never been here before, and she’s mesmerized. This is Old Europe, the byzantine roads and decrepit churches, the cold castles and cobwebbed chateaus. It’s so foreign from Paris, London, Berlin, so removed from the vacations she’s taken all her life.

_Not really an Upper East Side haunt, is it?_ Humphrey asks, his smirk a flash of Brooklyn.

_No_ , she concedes.

They watch ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in Czech at the Shakespeare festival, drinking beer and pretending they understand what’s going on ( _Just to say we did this_ , she says, but also because his arm is pleasantly heavy on her shoulder), and wander through the winding streets for days, picking up phrases here and there and learning to haggle with vendors.

_We have to head back to Paris soon_ , Humphrey says, after a day at the Prague Zoo. _Like, in a few days_.

_I don’t want to go back_ , Blair admits. _New York was awful in comparison to this trip_.

_Even with me there?_

_Even with you_.

Over dinner at the top of the Dancing House, Humphrey talks incessantly about his plans for his novel, the edits waiting for him on his desk at home, and his hopes that it might turn out better than the last.

_What about you?_ he asks.

She shakes her head. _I’ll find out about the Paris Review internship I applied for next week. Until then, who knows?_

_You’ll get it, I’m sure_ , he replies, and she wishes he would take her hand and say that instead of just looking at her, which is a stupid wish, because it’s still Humphrey, after all (Kate reproaches her, in the back of her mind: _The time to make up your mind about people is never_ ).

And so after dinner, when Humphrey is downstairs talking to the concierge, she reaches into her bag and finds the notebook, battered, but still in good condition. She flips to the last page; she writes. She places it on his bed and walks out before she has time to regret it.

He comes to her room in under an hour, the notebook in one hand, and a familiar look on his face.

_Did you read—_

_I don’t want to talk about it_ , he says, and then they are kissing, her and Humphrey, will she have to call him Dan after this, because they’ve kissed before, just to sort things out, and that was all right, but there was never a need to alter the way they interacted. But this is—this is _personal_ , maybe not quite as experienced as Chuck, but certainly more— _something_ —she _had_ gone to school, she _could_ form words, just not—now—

_Humphrey—_

He pauses, looks at her.

_Are you happy?_ he asks.

She nods, _yes_ having disappeared from her vocabulary. _Yes_ , she would say if she could, _yes,_ and then _yes_ a few hundred more times.

Maybe this won’t do well at the box office or make for classic literature; fate and destiny seem well out of the picture. But Humphrey (Dan?) kisses her again, and again, and again, and somehow, all that doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest.

__


End file.
